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Author: Anne Cassidy

Desert in Bloom

Desert in Bloom

Yesterday at the Desert Museum, I saw more beauty than I could imagine: macro beauty and micro beauty. Should I go for the long shot or the short one? Simple: I go for both!

I shot pictures of javelinas (sleeping under the bridge), a bobcat, a Mexican jay — and every kind of cactus under the sun. And a powerful sun, too by the way, which makes its presence felt in every frame.

I have to leave the desert today, the desert in bloom. But I have hundreds of photographs and a few ideas riding home with me.

 

Bisbee 1000

Bisbee 1000

Bisbee, Arizona, is a funky old mining town built into a hillside with shops and houses tucked into nooks and crannies. There are no straight streets here. Which means that if you need to get from Point A to Point B you can walk a few blocks — or you can take the stairs.

The town is criss-crossed with stairways, some with railings and some without, some crumbling and some whole, some decorated and others plain. You might head up a flight thinking it leads to the street above only to find that it dead-ends at a lavender bungalow with Buddhist prayer flags flying.

I walked the Bisbee stairs yesterday — at least 1,000 of them, maybe more. In between I heard a man strumming a guitar in his carport, and a bird (a hermit thrush?) singing in a shiny green-leafed tree. I wandered into a church built a hundred years ago by men who worked a full shift in the mines then spent four more hours a day building a house of worship.

Stair-climbing builds character, as does life on the frontier. Arizona was the 48th state admitted to the union, which means its frontier days aren’t far behind it. Maybe that’s why it’s easy to imagine an earlier way of life here: a time when things weren’t quite as easy as they are now.

On the Border

On the Border

In southern Arizona a border wall is not a vague threat; it’s a reality. Or at least a border fence, a dark, menacing one that I spotted first from an overlook and then from a few hundred yards away.  A fence that people here call “the wall.”

Built to block the flow of humans and contraband, it’s doing a good job of containing animals, too. So Mexican wild turkeys like the one in yesterday’s post are less likely to be up this way now. And the lone male jaguar who’s said to haunt Ramsey Canyon will never find a mate.

The borderlands are rich in animal species that need to cross and recross in order to flourish. The wall has been hard on them. It will be hard on us, too.

Birders’ Heaven

Birders’ Heaven

Ramsey Canyon is birders’ heaven, home to 14 species of hummingbirds — compared to the one or two we have at home — and plenty of other bird species that have crossed the border, like this Mexican wild turkey. He was courting the ladies and strutting his stuff.

He, of course, was an easy photographic target, large and slow-moving. Most birds are quicksilver flashes. To spot and identify them takes time, knowledge and patience — skills that I lack but skills that birders have in spades.

In fact, I wish I had a birder with me now to identify the flap of wings in the Emory oak, the source of the lovely song I’m hearing. Is it a hermit thrush? I’ve heard they live around here. I grab a bird book, look it up. Yes, it’s possible. It could be. And there’s just enough of the fudger in me to say, what the heck, let’s just call it a hermit thrush and call it a day.

Thanks to the birders we’ve met I can verify that I truly have seen an acorn woodpecker: hepatic tanager; calliope, blue-throated and broadbill hummingbirds; a white-winged swallow; Mexican wild turkey; Cooper’s hawk; a road runner; and a painted redstart, a “life bird” for many.

So from musing on birds, I come to musing on birders. What impresses me most about them is their dedication and gladness. They notice life around them. They savor its sights and sounds. They recognize its beauty.

Thirty

Thirty

Thirty years ago today, Tom and I were married in a snowy Lexington, Kentucky. We came here to Arizona to celebrate the day, and found colder than normal temperatures — but at least no snow!

A marriage is not just the union of two people; it’s also the beginning of a family, and today I’m thinking about the wonderful family that Tom and I have created. Three beautiful daughters, a new son-in-law — and a host of friends and connections.

It’s a web of relationships that sustain and nurture us, that make this day special in so many, many ways.

Seeing the Saguaro

Seeing the Saguaro

When I was a kid we drove along Interstate 10 on our way to southern California. I can remember seeing Saguaro cactus out the window, but there was never time to get out and walk among them.

Yesterday, there was time. Yesterday, the Saguaro were the destination. We learned about them, hiked around them, took pictures of them.

Saguaro are 20, 30 even 50 feet tall. They might be 70 years old before they grow a branch. Though  they’re found only in southern Arizona and parts of Mexico, they’re icons of the American West.

I wondered as I walked whether that’s why they seem so familiar. But there’s something else at work. Some of them reach out with open arms, others give a stiff salute. They look a little human out there, and in fact the Tohono O’odham Indians treat them as revered members of the tribe, not quite people but not quite cactus, either.

After just a few hours among the plants I can understand why.

The Righteous Mind

The Righteous Mind

In The Righteous Mind: Why Good People are Divided by Politics and Religion, Jonathan Haidt uses moral psychology to explain political polarization. One of his major points is that when we make decisions we may think conscious reasoning is in charge, but actually it’s just a puny human rider sitting atop a large, strong elephant (the automatic and intuitive part of our brains). The elephant almost always wins.

What does this have to do with politics? Actually it has to do with everything, but Haidt applies it to politics in this book by pointing out that we’re often unaware of the motivations that underlie our political choices and the narratives that bind us.

Published in 2012, this book long precedes the current political paralysis — but as I read it I had many aha moments. More than Hillbilly Elegy or any newspaper or magazine article, it explains how we ended up with the current resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

It’s difficult to summarize the nuances of Haidt’s argument in one post, but here’s one of the passages I found most useful. “If you are trying to change an organization or a society and you do not consider the effects of your changes on moral capital, you’re asking for trouble. This, I believe, is the fundamental blind spot of the left. It explains why liberal reforms so often backfire … It is the reason I belive that liberalism — which as done to much to bring about freedom and equal opportunity — is not sufficient as a governing philosophy. It tends to overreach, change too many things too quickl, and reduce the stodk of moral capital inadvertently.”

What to do now? Most of all, try to understand ourselves and each other. And, of course, read. On my nightstand now: The Happiness Hypothesis, Haidt’s first book.

Finding the Source

Finding the Source

I’m skipping the cherry blossoms at the Tidal Basin this year, an annual ritual I haven’t missed in 10 years. This is in part because of the cold-stunted blooms this year and in part because I can’t easily walk to the show.

But cherry blossoms are everywhere. Even on my 12-minute walks around the block. And I’m not the only one who notices.

It’s not a matter of traveling to the source, but of finding the source wherever you happen to be.

Opportunities for Awe

Opportunities for Awe

Yesterday’s walk took me along a Reston trail. It was late afternoon, balmy and blooming, with crows cawing in the swamp.

I thought about the name of this blog, “A Walker in the Suburbs.” I thought about how if you didn’t know my suburb, you might envision streets of sameness, void of nature and texture.

You might not imagine this immersion in a natural world: stream gurgling, peepers peeping, smell of loam in the air. You might discount the opportunities for awe.

Burrowing

Burrowing

I’d like to say the thunder woke me up, but I was already awake and reading when I heard the first clap. But it did jolt me, and, more to the point, it upset Copper so that he scratched on the door to be comforted.

I escorted him to the basement, his place of safety — though if he only knew how many precariously stacked books and boxes are down there he might seek higher ground.

But burrowing and sheltering have their appeal. I thought about this over the weekend when I draped a comforter over some chairs on the deck to air it out and was immediately reminded of the blanket forts my brother and I made when we were young.

How cozy they were, how beguiling, as if no one would ever find us, as if (it seems to me now), we would never grow up.